A Collection of Selected Poems Dini Fareha

7/29/2019 A Collection of Selected Poems Dini Fareha

1/22


2/22

ROBERT FROST

Mending WallSomething there is that doesn't love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

The work of hunters is another thing:

I have come after them and made repair

Where they have left not one stone on a stone,

But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,

To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,

No one has seen them made or heard them made,

But at spring mending-time we find them there.

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;

And on a day we meet to walk the line

And set the wall between us once again.

We keep the wall between us as we go.

To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

And some are loaves and some so nearly balls

We have to use a spell to make them balance:

"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"

We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

Oh, just another kind of out-door game,

One on a side. It comes to little more:

There where it is we do not need the wall:

He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

My apple trees will never get across

And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."


3/22

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder

If I could put a notion in his head:

"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it

Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know

What I was walling in or walling out,

And to whom I was like to give offence.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,

But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather

He said it for himself. I see him there

Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top

In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.

He moves in darkness as it seems to me,

Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

He will not go behind his father's saying,

And he likes having thought of it so well

He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Acquainted with the NightI have been one acquainted with the night.I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.I have passed by the watchman on his beatAnd dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feetWhen far away an interrupted cryCame over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;And further still at an unearthly height,A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.I have been one acquainted with the night.


4/22

Out, OutThe buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yardAnd made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.And from there those that lifted eyes could count

Five mountain ranges one behind the otherUnder the sunset far into Vermont.And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,As it ran light, or had to bear a load.And nothing happened: day was all but done.Call it a day, I wish they might have saidTo please the boy by giving him the half hourThat a boy counts so much when saved from work.His sister stood beside them in her apronTo tell them "Supper." At that word, the saw,As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap -He must have given the hand. However it was,Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh,As he swung toward them holding up the handHalf in appeal, but half as if to keepThe life from spilling. Then the boy saw all -Since he was old enough to know, big boyDoing a man's work, though a child at heart -He saw all spoiled. "Don't let him cut my hand off -The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!"So. But the hand was gone already.The doctor put him in the dark of ether.He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.

And then - the watcher at his pulse took fright.No one believed. They listened at his heart.Little - less - nothing! - and that ended it.No more to build on there. And they, since theyWere not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

The Red Wheelbarrowso much dependsupon

a red wheelbarrow

glazed with rainwater

beside the white

chickens.


5/22

This is Just to Say

I have eatenthe plumsthat were inthe icebox

and whichyou were probablysavingfor breakfast

Forgive methey were deliciousso sweetand so cold

EDGAR ALLAN POE

The BellsI

Hear the sledges with the bells-Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,In the icy air of night!While the stars that oversprinkleAll the heavens, seem to twinkleWith a crystalline delight;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the tintinnabulation that so musically wellsFrom the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells-From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II

Hear the mellow wedding bells,Golden bells!What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!Through the balmy air of nightHow they ring out their delight!From the molten-golden notes,And an in tune,What a liquid ditty floatsTo the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloatsOn the moon!

Oh, from out the sounding cells,What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!


6/22

How it swells!How it dwellsOn the Future! how it tellsOf the rapture that impelsTo the swinging and the ringingOf the bells, bells, bells,

Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,Bells, bells, bells-To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III

Hear the loud alarum bells-Brazen bells!What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!In the startled ear of nightHow they scream out their affright!Too much horrified to speak,

They can only shriek, shriek,Out of tune,In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,Leaping higher, higher, higher,With a desperate desire,And a resolute endeavor,Now- now to sit or never,By the side of the pale-faced moon.Oh, the bells, bells, bells!What a tale their terror tellsOf Despair!

How they clang, and clash, and roar!What a horror they outpourOn the bosom of the palpitating air!Yet the ear it fully knows,By the twanging,And the clanging,How the danger ebbs and flows:Yet the ear distinctly tells,In the jangling,And the wrangling,How the danger sinks and swells,By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-Of the bells-

Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,Bells, bells, bells-In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

IV

Hear the tolling of the bells-Iron Bells!What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!In the silence of the night,How we shiver with affrightAt the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floatsFrom the rust within their throats


7/22

Is a groan.And the people- ah, the people-They that dwell up in the steeple,All AloneAnd who, tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone-They are neither man nor woman-They are neither brute nor human-They are Ghouls:And their king it is who tolls;And he rolls, rolls, rolls,RollsA paean from the bells!And his merry bosom swellsWith the paean of the bells!And he dances, and he yells;

Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the paean of the bells-Of the bells:Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the throbbing of the bells-Of the bells, bells, bells-To the sobbing of the bells;Keeping time, time, time,As he knells, knells, knells,In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells-Of the bells, bells, bells:To the tolling of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-Bells, bells, bells-To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

MAYA ANGELOU

Phenomenal WomanPretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I'm a womanPhenomenally.


8/22

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can't see.

I say,

It's in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.I say,


9/22

It's in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

the palm of my hand,

The need of my care,

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

Still I Rise

You may write me down in historyWith your bitter, twisted lies,You may trod me in the very dirtBut still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?Why are you beset with gloom?'Cause I walk like I've got oil wellsPumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,With the certainty of tides,Just like hopes springing high,Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?Don't you take it awful hard'Cause I laugh like I've got gold minesDiggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,You may cut me with your eyes,You may kill me with your hatefulness,But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?Does it come as a surpriseThat I dance like I've got diamondsAt the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shameI riseUp from a past that's rooted in painI riseI'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I riseInto a daybreak that's wondrously clear


10/22

I riseBringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,I am the dream and the hope of the slave.I riseI riseI rise.

That's me.

E.E. CUMMINGS

(a leaf falls) lonelinessl(a

le

af

fa

ll

s)

one

l

iness

CHARLOTTE BRONTE

The Teacher's Monologue

THE room is quiet, thoughts alonePeople its mute tranquillity;The yoke put on, the long task done,I am, as it is bliss to be,Still and untroubled. Now, I see,For the first time, how soft the dayO'er waveless water, stirless tree,Silent and sunny, wings its way.Now, as I watch that distant hill,So faint, so blue, so far removed,Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill,That home where I am known and loved:

It lies beyond; yon azure browParts me from all Earth holds for me;


11/22

And, morn and eve, my yearnings flowThitherward tending, changelessly.My happiest hours, aye ! all the time,I love to keep in memory,Lapsed among moors, ere life's first primeDecayed to dark anxiety.

Sometimes, I think a narrow heartMakes me thus mourn those far away,And keeps my love so far apartFrom friends and friendships of to-day;Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dreamI measure up so jealously,All the sweet thoughts I live on seemTo vanish into vacancy:And then, this strange, coarse world aroundSeems all that's palpable and true;And every sight, and every sound,

Combines my spirit to subdueTo aching grief, so void and loneIs Life and Earthso worse than vain,The hopes that, in my own heart sown,And cherished by such sun and rainAs Joy and transient Sorrow shed,Have ripened to a harvest there:Alas ! methinks I hear it said,'Thy golden sheaves are empty air.'All fades away; my very homeI think will soon be desolate;I hear, at times, a warning come

Of bitter partings at its gate;And, if I should return and seeThe hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair;And hear it whispered mournfully,That farewells have been spoken there,What shall I do, and whither turn ?Where look for peace ? When cease to mourn ?

'Tis not the air I wished to play,The strain I wished to sing;My wilful spirit slipped awayAnd struck another string.I neither wanted smile nor tear,

Bright joy nor bitter woe,But just a song that sweet and clear,Though haply sad, might flow.

A quiet song, to solace meWhen sleep refused to come;A strain to chase despondency,When sorrowful for home.In vain I try; I cannot sing;All feels so cold and dead;No wild distress, no gushing springOf tears in anguish shed;

But all the impatient gloom of one


12/22

Who waits a distant day,When, some great task of suffering done,Repose shall toil repay.For youth departs, and pleasure flies,And life consumes away,And youth's rejoicing ardour dies

Beneath this drear delay;

And Patience, weary with her yoke,Is yielding to despair,And Health's elastic spring is brokeBeneath the strain of care.Life will be gone ere I have lived;Where now is Life's first prime ?I've worked and studied, longed and grieved,Through all that rosy time.

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,

Is such my future fate ?The morn was dreary, must the eveBe also desolate ?Well, such a life at least makes DeathA welcome, wished-for friend;Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith,To suffer to the end !

WOLE SOYINKA

Telephone ConversationThe price seemed reasonable, location

Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived

Off premises. Nothing remained

But self-confession. Madam, I warned,

5 I hate a wasted journeyI am African.

Silence. Silenced transmission of

Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled

Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully.

10 HOW DARK? . . . I had not misheard . . . ARE YOU LIGHT

OR VERY DARK? Button B. Button A. Stench

Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.

Red booth. Red pillar-box. Red double-tiered

Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed

15 By ill-mannered silence, surrender

Pushed dumbfoundment to beg simplification.

Considerate she was, varying the emphasis


13/22

ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT? Revelation came.

You meanlike plain or milk chocolate?

20 Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light

Impersonality. Rapidly, wavelength adjusted,

I chose. West African sepiaand as an afterthought,

Down in my passport. Silence for spectroscopicFlight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent

25 Hard on the mouthpiece. WHATS THAT? conceding,

DONT KNOWWHAT THAT IS. Like brunette.

THATS DARK, ISNT IT? Not altogether.

Facially, I am brunette, but madam, you should see

The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet

30 Are a peroxide blonde. Friction, caused

Foolishly, madamby sitting down, has turned

My bottom raven blackOne moment madam!sensing

Her receiver rearing on the thunderclapAbout my earsMadam, I pleaded, wouldnt you rather

35 See for yourself?

JOHN KEATS

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease,For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers:And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--


14/22

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble softThe red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

ELIZABETH BISHOP

Giant SnailThe rain has stopped. The waterfall will roar like that allnight. I have come out to take a walk and feed. My body--foot,that is--is wet and cold and covered with sharp gravel. It iswhite, the size of a dinner plate. I have set myself a goal, acertain rock, but it may well be dawn before I get there.Although I move ghostlike and my floating edges barely grazethe ground, I am heavy, heavy, heavy. My white muscles arealready tired. I give the impression of mysterious ease, but it isonly with the greatest effort of my will that I can rise above thesmallest stones and sticks. And I must not let myself be dis-tracted by those rough spears of grass. Don't touch them. Drawback. Withdrawal is always best.

The rain has stopped. The waterfall makes such a noise! (Andwhat if I fall over it?) The mountains of black rock give off suchclouds of steam! Shiny streamers are hanging down their sides.When this occurs, we have a saying that the Snail Gods havecome down in haste. I could never descend such steep escarp-ments, much less dream of climbing them.That toad was too big, too, like me. His eyes beseeched mylove. Our proportions horrify our neighbors.Rest a minute; relax. Flattened to the ground, my body is likea pallid, decomposing leaf. What's that tapping on my shell?Nothing. Let's go on.My sides move in rhythmic waves, just off the ground, from

front to back, the wake of a ship, wax-white water, or a slowlymelting floe. I am cold, cold, cold as ice. My blind, white bull'shead was a Cretan scare-head; degenerate, my four horns thatcan't attack. The sides of my mouth are now my hands. Theypress the earth and suck it hard. Ah, but I know my shell isbeautiful, and high, and glazed, and shining. I know it well,although I have not seen it. Its curled white lip is of the finestenamel. Inside, it is as smooth as silk, and I, I fill it to perfection.My wide wake shines, now it is growing dark. I leave a lovelyopalescent ribbon: I know this.But O! I am too big. I feel it. Pity me.If and when I reach the rock, I shall go into a certain crack

there for the night. The waterfall below will vibrate throughmy shell and body all night long. In that steady pulsing I canrest. All night I shall be like a sleeping ear.


15/22

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I wandered lonely as a cloudI wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not but be gay,In such a jocund company:I gazed---and gazed---but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLY

Eyes: A Fragment

How eloquent are eyes!Not the rapt poet's frenzied layWhen the soul's wildest feelings strayCan speak so well as they.How eloquent are eyes!Not musics most impassioned noteOn which Loves warmest fervours floatLike them bids rapture rise.

Love, look thus again,--That your look may light a waste of years,Darting the beam that conquers caresThrough the cold shower of tears.Love, look thus again!


16/22

WILLIAM SHEKESPEARE

Carpe DiemO mistress mine, where are you roaming?

O stay and hear! your true-love's comingThat can sing both high and low;Trip no further, pretty sweeting,Journey's end in lovers' meeting--Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;Present mirth hath present laughter;What's to come is still unsure:In delay there lies no plenty,--Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty,Youth's a stuff will not endure.

RUDYARD KIPLING

IfIf you can keep your head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on you;If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too:If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,Or being hated don't give way to hating,And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,If you can meet with Triumph and DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same:.If you can bear to hear the truth you've spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginnings,And never breathe a word about your loss:If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much:If you can fill the unforgiving minute


17/22

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!

Boots (Infantry Columns)INFANTRY COLUMNS

We're footslogslogslogsloggin' over Africa

Footfootfootfootsloggin' over Africa

(Bootsbootsbootsbootsmovin' up an' down again!)

There's no discharge in the war!

Sevensixelevenfivenine-an'-twenty mile to-day

Fourelevenseventeenthirty-two the day before

(Bootsbootsbootsbootsmovin' up an' down again!)There's no discharge in the war!

Don'tdon'tdon'tdon'tlook at what's in front of you.

(Bootsbootsbootsbootsmovin' up an' down again);

Menmenmenmenmen go mad with watchin' em,

An' there's no discharge in the war!

Trytrytrytryto think o' something different

OhmyGodkeepme from goin' lunatic!

(Bootsbootsbootsbootsmovin' up an' down again!)


Countcountcountcountthe bullets in the bandoliers.

Ifyoureyesdropthey will get atop o' you!

(Bootsbootsbootsbootsmovin' up an' down again)


Wecanstickout'unger, thirst, an' weariness,

Butnotnotnotnot the chronic sight of 'em Bootbootsbootsbootsmovin' up an' down again,


'Taintsobadbyday because o' company,

But nightbringslongstringso' forty thousand million

Bootsbootsbootsbootsmovin' up an' down again.


I'avemarchedsixweeks in 'Ell an' certify

Itisnotfiredevils, dark, or anything,


18/22

But bootsbootsbootsbootsmovin' up an' down again,


LANGSTON HUGHES

A Dream Deferred

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry uplike a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?Or crust and sugar over--

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

I, Too, Sing America

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,

And grow strong.

Tomorrow,

I'll be at the table


19/22

When company comes.

Nobody'll dare

Say to me,

"Eat in the kitchen,"

Then.

Besides,

They'll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed

I, too, am America.

JOHN DONNE

Death Be Not Proud

Death be not proud, though some have called theeMighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

ROALD DAHL

TelevisionThe most important thing we've learned,So far as children are concerned,Is never, NEVER, NEVER let

Them near your television set --Or better still, just don't install


20/22

The idiotic thing at all.In almost every house we've been,We've watched them gaping at the screen.They loll and slop and lounge about,And stare until their eyes pop out.(Last week in someone's place we saw

A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)They sit and stare and stare and sitUntil they're hypnotised by it,Until they're absolutely drunkWith all that shocking ghastly junk.Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,They don't climb out the window sill,They never fight or kick or punch,They leave you free to cook the lunchAnd wash the dishes in the sink --But did you ever stop to think,To wonder just exactly what

This does to your beloved tot?IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLINDHE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTANDA FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,'But if we take the set away,

What shall we do to entertainOur darling children? Please explain!'We'll answer this by asking you,'What used the darling ones to do?'How used they keep themselves contentedBefore this monster was invented?'Have you forgotten? Don't you know?We'll say it very loud and slow:THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,AND READ and READ, and then proceedTo READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!One half their lives was reading books!The nursery shelves held books galore!

Books cluttered up the nursery floor!And in the bedroom, by the bed,More books were waiting to be read!Such wondrous, fine, fantastic talesOf dragons, gypsies, queens, and whalesAnd treasure isles, and distant shoresWhere smugglers rowed with muffled oars,And pirates wearing purple pants,And sailing ships and elephants,And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,Stirring away at something hot.(It smells so good, what can it be?

Good gracious, it's Penelope.)The younger ones had Beatrix Potter


21/22

With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-Just How The Camel Got His Hump,And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,

There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-Oh, books, what books they used to know,Those children living long ago!So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,Go throw your TV set away,And in its place you can installA lovely bookshelf on the wall.Then fill the shelves with lots of books,Ignoring all the dirty looks,The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,And children hitting you with sticks-Fear not, because we promise you

That, in about a week or twoOf having nothing else to do,They'll now begin to feel the needOf having something to read.And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!You watch the slowly growing joyThat fills their hearts. They'll grow so keenThey'll wonder what they'd ever seenIn that ridiculous machine,That nauseating, foul, unclean,Repulsive television screen!And later, each and every kid

Will love you more for what you did.

SHELDON ALLAN SILVERSTEIN

AtionsIf we meet and I say, 'Hi,'

That's a salutation.If you ask me how I feel,That's a consideration.If we stop and talk a while,That's a conversation.If we understand each other,That's a communication.If we argue, scream and fight,That's an altercation.If later we apoligize,That's reconciliation.If we help each other home,That's a cooperation.And all these actions added upMake Civilization.


22/22

(And if I say this is a wonderful poem,Is that exaggeration?)

EMILY DICKINSON

I heard a fly buzz when I died;I heard a fly buzz when I died;The stillness round my formWas like the stillness in the airBetween the heaves of storm.

The eyes beside had wrung them dry,And breaths were gathering sureFor that last onset, when the kingBe witnessed in his power.

I willed my keepsakes, signed awayWhat portion of me ICould make assignable,--and thenThere interposed a fly,

With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,Between the light and me;And then the windows failed, and thenI could not see to see.

A Bird Came Down

A bird came down the walk:He did not know I saw;He bit an angle-worm in halvesAnd ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dewFrom a convenient grass,And then hopped sidewise to the wallTo let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyesThat hurried all abroad,--They looked like frightened beads, I thought;He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,I offered him a crumb,And he unrolled his feathersAnd rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,Too silver for a seam,Or butterflies, off banks of noon,Leap, splashless, as they swim.

A Collection of Selected Poems Dini Fareha

Documents

Transcript of A Collection of Selected Poems Dini Fareha